by Pam Lecky
‘I won’t say a word, I promise,’ she said.
Rob looked so relieved. He believed he had reeled her in so easily. It made her blood boil. In the last few weeks she had often questioned her motivation, but any doubts she had about what she was doing were gone now. Bringing him and his Nazi friends to justice would be so satisfying.
‘All right,’ he answered, reaching across and squeezing her hand. ‘Fancy some whisky in that tea to warm you up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
25
29th October 1941, Hursley
Sarah arrived home from work a few days later and was met by her aunt at the door. Alice was beaming as she handed Sarah a letter.
‘Must be that young man from Dublin you told us about?’ Aunt Alice’s eyes were alight with curiosity. ‘Now, what was his name again?’
Sarah recognised Paul’s hand and a rush of excitement swept through her. The letter bore a Yorkshire postmark. So that’s where he was! But more importantly, he had remembered her.
‘Yes – Paul.’ Sarah stared at the letter for several moments before pushing it into her coat pocket.
‘You’re going to wait to read it?’ her aunt asked, her brows raised. ‘Go on with you, girl. Catch up on the news and you can tell me all after dinner.’
Torn between her evening-time duty to her aunt, and the fact that the letter was already burning a hole in her pocket, Sarah crumbled. ‘Would you mind terribly …?’
‘Of course not. I don’t need help this evening. Dinner will be in half an hour – that should give you plenty of time to read it.’ Aunt Alice actually winked at her before waving her off and returning to the kitchen.
There were no secrets in the Lambe house; everything was openly discussed by the family, which was lovely, and a novelty to her, but in this instance, she longed for privacy. If Uncle Tom or Martin found her downstairs with the letter, they would plague her to know what was in it, but Paul was her last link to Dublin, and she could not bear the thought of sharing him with the others just yet. With a light heart, Sarah tore up the stairs to her room. She was greedy for news. For weeks now she had pushed all thoughts of him to the back of her mind; it was the only way she could cope with the forced intimacy with Rob. Despite Northcott’s insistence that what she was doing was for the greater good, it still felt like betrayal. If Paul ever learned of her actions, would he understand or approve? She had difficulty justifying them to herself as it was.
Sitting on the bed, she ran her fingers over the envelope. The accusations she had thrown at Paul on the night of the bombing were echoing in her head. Was she to spend the rest of her life regretting them? She paused. Could this letter be the longed-for reconciliation, or might it be the final curtain falling on what remained of their relationship?
With mixed emotions, she slit open the envelope. To her surprise, her hands trembled, and tears weren’t far off either. The stress of the last few weeks had grown to a point where she even wondered if she could carry on with Northcott’s plan. The worst thing was not having anyone to confide in or to seek advice from. If ever she had needed contact from a true friend, it was now. Paul’s continued silence had been difficult to understand, and she had feared it meant he had totally rejected her. Well, the letter was proof she had been mistaken. For better or worse, she had to read it. She slipped the letter out of the envelope and was delighted to see it covered three pages; that had to be a good omen. Taking a deep breath, she dived in.
24th October 1941
Prince of Wales Hotel,
Scarborough.
Dear Sarah,
I hope this letter finds you well. You must forgive the delay in writing to you, but we have been moving from Billy to Jack for ages. Life has been quite mad, and I have hardly had time to think, but you have never been far from my thoughts and when I do have a quiet moment, I wonder how you are getting on. Hopefully, you continue to recover from your awful ordeal and have settled in with your family. I’m dying to hear all about them. It seems a lifetime ago that we last met at the cemetery that day, and so much has happened to me since then.
And to me, Sarah thought gloomily, before continuing to read.
A week later, I travelled up to Belfast and presented myself at the recruitment centre, suddenly very unsure of myself. I needn’t have worried: I was welcomed with open arms. However, I had no idea it would take so long for my paperwork to be processed. I suppose because I’m Irish they insisted on several references and there were strict criteria to be followed. Someone in the pub told me they are terrified some IRA good-for-nothings might try to enlist and get up to mischief. Anyway, luckily for me, my old boss back in Dublin and Sergeant Mulligan from Store Street Station were more than willing to provide what the RAF required. However, until those documents came through, I had to kick my heels in Belfast. Fortunately, the owner of the hostel where I was staying heard of work at a local factory, so for six weeks I worked there, making tank parts. Much as I enjoyed doing something for the war effort, it was a great relief when the call finally came. I left for Doncaster with several other fellows. We arrived on a wet and dismal day at the aircrew selection board and I must admit I was awfully nervous. There were two days of intelligence tests (yes, I can hear you laughing about that!) and a medical which included colour-blindness and eye tests. Gosh, I was anxious about those, as bad eyesight runs in the family. We even had a night vision test where you sit in a dark room and you have to name the objects or shapes which flash up on a small screen.
Next thing we knew, we were on a train to London, of all places. You can imagine our astonishment to discover we would be starting our service life at Lord’s Cricket Ground. On arrival we were issued with our kit and uniform (nice and smart, I think you will agree when you see me) and then another shock ensued. Our digs were luxury flats in St John’s Wood. In case you don’t know, that’s quite a posh area. Do not get too envious, however, as the flats had been stripped of all extravagances before we arrived. Still, it was wonderful to have access to decent bathrooms; no outdoor privies for us, like at home. The following day we had the compulsory razor haircut. All I can say is that it is practical!
I won’t bore you with my daily routine, but you can be sure there was plenty of drilling and the like. They continuously tested us to see if we were fit to fly. The first time I went up, I was absolutely terrified, shaking like a leaf, and wondered what the hell I had been thinking. But oh, it was glorious and once my nerves settled, I began to enjoy it. Now I am totally addicted to it. And, by the grace of God, I am proud to say that I am now officially an RAF Cadet!
After a couple of days, we were allowed out into the city and I visited all the London tourist attractions. I’ve never walked so much in my life. The people were amazing, and we received nothing but kindness as we explored the sights. I suppose the uniform helped! Despite the bombing, the city is incredible, and I don’t just mean the buildings. It’s hard to explain. There’s a kind of excitement in the air there. I’ve certainly experienced nothing like it. There were a few air-raid warnings, but all were false alarms.
After two weeks we were posted here to the Initial Training camp where things became serious. We are billeted in a hotel which has been requisitioned for our use. It would be a wonderful place for a holiday – it is beautifully situated on a clifftop overlooking the sea, and the food isn’t half bad, but, unfortunately, that is the best I can say for it. The physical training is relentless and the lectures tough. I had always considered myself a fit man, but I had no real concept of what is meant by physical exhaustion. I think the worst was the cross-country march in the most appalling weather, with heavy kit, and dare I admit, a heavier heart. There have been a few moments when my commitment has wobbled, but it always comes back to the planes. I desperately want to fly and now I am determined to stick it out, no matter what.
This week sees the end of my initial training and we have been given permission to take some downtime. My next posting will be to Elementary Flying School
at Brough, so I was hoping we could meet up this weekend. I am planning to get the train to Southampton with one of the lads this Friday. Ralph has invited me to stay at his folks’ place. Of course, I jumped at the chance, knowing it wouldn’t be too far from where you are living, and it might be possible for us to meet. Perhaps we could get together on Saturday afternoon? My friend says there’s a nice little café called Mrs Delaney’s Tea Rooms on Commercial Road, close to the station. I’ll be there for 3.30 pm and will wait outside for you. I really hope you can make it but don’t worry if it doesn’t suit you, I’ll understand.
Yours affectionately,
Paul.
Sarah skimmed through the letter a second time, her heart thumping. He was giving her an out in that last sentence. Paul was unsure of her, which made her sad. She still wondered whether she should have told him her true feelings that day at the cemetery. But regrets were pointless. If she had learned anything in the last few months, it was to grab life and its opportunities without hesitation, for you did not know what life had in store.
Wild horses wouldn’t keep her away from that rendezvous. It would be wonderful to see him again. A tiny flicker of optimism ignited in her heart. There was an undercurrent of warmth to his words, and she dared to hope he still had feelings for her. His letter could not have come at a better time. Since Sunday, she had nearly fallen into despair. What Rob and Northcott were asking of her was tearing her apart. She glanced at the letter again. After the way she had treated Paul, she didn’t deserve his friendship. If only she could pour her heart out to him! But she couldn’t tell Paul anything about what was happening with Rob and Northcott. Not after what had happened to Alfie. The risk was too great, and Paul was … still special. There! She had admitted it fully now. So often she had buried her feelings, as it was the only way she could pretend to like Rob. What a mess! Still, perhaps there was a glimmer of hope. That was, of course, if she wasn’t hanged for treason in the near future.
With a groan, her thoughts turned reluctantly to Northcott. A telegram from him had landed on her desk that morning, proposing a new rendezvous point down in Southampton, and as it happened, he was suggesting early Saturday evening, the same day she would meet Paul. He expressed a hope that the bus journey would not be too fatiguing. My, but he was a sarcastic so-and-so. Southampton was no easier a location for her to get to, but nice and convenient for him. Sarah sucked in a breath: she dreaded meeting him again, not least because of the strange circumstances of Alfie’s death. On top of that, he would expect her to have a plan in place now that Rob had openly encouraged her to steal drawings. Both men were becoming more demanding, and stalling wasn’t an option with either of them. Greatly agitated, she sprang up from the bed and went to the window.
Down below in the garden, Martin was leaning against the wall chatting to his father as Uncle Tom turned over the soil in one of the empty vegetable beds. Their laughter floated up, catching her heart. Life was so normal here in this house. How she longed to embrace it! But until the job with Northcott was concluded, she could only be a bystander.
26
1st November 1941, Southampton
It was Saturday afternoon. With an hour to spare before meeting Paul, Sarah walked over to High Street, where she was to meet Northcott at five o’clock in the Victoria Hotel. The street was long, stretching from the Bargate down to the port. It was bitterly cold, and a sharp breeze was blowing up from the harbour as she headed southward. Every so often, the wind picked up eddies of dust which pirouetted upwards, stinging her nostrils and eyes. Sarah had to hold her scarf up over her mouth and squint to avoid it.
The Blitz the previous November had left the thoroughfare a pitiful sight, with large tracts of it still in ruins. Tomb-like mounds of debris and scorched timbers bordered the pavement, stark reminders of the Jerry attacks. One or two shops in between had survived, their windows valiantly declaring that Jerry wasn’t going to put them out of business. One had to admire the shopkeeper’s resolute spirit. Sarah knew there had been hundreds of lives lost in the Blitz, but people were picking up the pieces and carrying on. It was defiance in the face of near-annihilation, and she found it incredibly moving.
So much destruction was hard to take in, and for one brief moment she was back in North Strand. She wondered if it was still in a similar state of bleak emptiness, haunted by uneasy ghosts. Poor Mrs Twohig, alone with her memories in that tiny cottage. That final visit to North Strand had been a defining moment for Sarah. Staring at No. 18, self-pity had been pushed aside and a burning desire to avenge Maura’s death had taken hold. If she could pull off Northcott’s plan, that desire for revenge would be satisfied.
But why did she feel so uneasy about it all?
As she continued down the street, she wondered why Northcott had chosen such a public place to meet, particularly after his reaction to being seen by Alfie. Did he not run the risk of being seen with her by friends or colleagues, or was there safety in a crowd? Would he claim she was a colleague?
She was almost at the harbour when she spotted the hotel across the street. It was a beautiful double-fronted building, with rounded bays protruding from the second and third floors. Judging by its architecture, she reckoned it must have stood on the spot for centuries, serving the passengers for the port. It was incredible it had escaped the destruction that had demolished half the buildings in the surrounding area.
Just as she was about to retrace her steps, an all-too-familiar cane-wielding figure limped out of the hotel door. Sarah turned and gazed in blind panic into the butcher’s shop window, pulling her scarf further up around the bottom half of her face, while her heart beat a drum tattoo against her chest. Gradually, she calmed enough to focus, and through the reflection in the shop window she watched Northcott. Still outside the hotel, he consulted his watch then stood for a moment, his hand tapping his leg as he looked up and down the street. Was he worried he was being watched? Sarah stepped closer to the shop window, hoping the awning and the passers-by would shield her from view. A few moments more, and to her great relief he turned left towards the harbour. Thank goodness he hadn’t spotted her. If he had seen her, what would he have thought? That she was spying on him? That she really was an IRA plant at Supermarine planning to double-cross him?
Turning her head ever so slightly, Sarah followed his progress. Even with his limp, he set a brisk pace and was soon lost from view around a corner. Maybe the hotel was a favourite haunt of his for lunch or a drink. As she contemplated what to do next, she observed that many of the clientele entering and exiting the premises were servicemen and women. Calmer, she laughed at herself. Southampton was a naval port and the hotel was close to the harbour. It made sense that naval officers would frequent it.
And then, a minute later, the most extraordinary thing happened. A grey-haired woman in a russet tweed suit with a matching coat and hat emerged from the hotel. The lady stood surveying the street before walking away in the opposite direction to Northcott. Sarah froze, dumbfounded. This was so bizarre, so unexpected, that for a moment Sarah wondered if she was imagining things. What on earth was Miss Whitaker doing coming out of the same hotel as Northcott? It could not be a coincidence. Good grief, she thought, she must have been meeting Northcott. The Dragon must be Northcott’s eyes and ears at Supermarine! That strange interview with Miss Whitaker two weeks before made much more sense now. The woman had been testing her. All that concern for her welfare had been a trick to see if Sarah would betray Northcott. What a tangled web of deceit!
Still perplexed, Sarah slowly made her way back up High Street, not sure whether to laugh or cry, but keeping well back from Miss Whitaker, who was striding away in a most purposeful manner.
By the time Sarah neared the tea rooms, she was calm again. Although puzzled, at least now she knew how careful she would have to be in formulating her plans and copying the drawings. But she did question why Northcott hadn’t told her about Miss Whitaker being on their side. Surely the woman could only be an as
set to their plan? Sarah could see how it would be impossible for someone in Miss Whitaker’s position to risk providing the plans – and besides, it was unlikely that Rob would target or trust such a senior member of staff – but at the very least, she could assist Sarah by suggesting a way to copy a drawing without being caught. Still, it was hard to know how Northcott’s mind worked; and if she were honest, she didn’t want to dwell on that. No doubt Miss Whitaker’s role in all of this would become apparent in due course.
At last Sarah caught sight of Paul, and suddenly her heart was pounding with anticipation; but she was scared too. He was so much more to her than just a face from the past or a link to her previous life. Did he still view her as just a friend? What she would give to be able to confide in him; not just about Rob and Northcott, but about how she felt about him. Dare she tell him how much she loved him? That she craved the warmth of his embrace? It would be wonderful to salvage some of their former intimacy, but that would be impossible, sitting in a café surrounded by strangers. And what if she took the plunge and he rejected her? There was no guarantee that he wished to rekindle their romance. There had been no hint of it in his letter.
Her breath caught in her throat as all the old feelings stirred within her. What an idiot you are, Sarah Gillespie, she berated herself. Look what you threw away! How handsome he looked as he stood waiting outside the tea rooms, looking about anxiously, and blowing into his cupped hands. In fact, he was such a welcome sight she had to resist the urge to rush up and hug him. The RAF uniform, with its smart overcoat, made him look older somehow, but when he saw her and smiled, he was her old Paul again.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said as she approached.
‘As are you!’ she answered, almost on the verge of tears.